The Time of Contempt

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Uff,’ he sighed once they left. ‘Great timing, Yen. Thank you.’

  ‘You're thanking me? Probably insincerely. In this hall there's a total of eleven women showing off their tits through transparent clothes. I left you for half an hour, only to catch you talking with two of them…’

  Yennefer stopped, staring at the fish-shaped dish.

  ‘… and eating an illusion,’ she added. ‘Oh, Geralt, Geralt. Come. There's an opportunity to introduce you to people who are worth it.’

  ‘Is one of those people Vilgefortz?’

  ‘How curious,’ the sorceress squinted her eyes, ‘that it's him you're asking about. Yes, Vilgefortz asked to meet you and speak with you. I must warn you that this talk may appear trivial and light-hearted, but don't let it fool you. Vilgefortz is an experienced and intelligent player. I don't know what he wants from you, but stay vigilant.’

  ‘I will be,’ he sighed. ‘But I doubt that this experienced player of yours will be able to surprise me. Not after all the things I've gone through here. I've been apprehended by spies, drowned in dying reptiles and ermines. I've been fed non-existent caviar. Nymphomaniacs with no interest in men have doubted my manhood, threatened me with rape on a hedgehog, pregnancy and even an orgasm of the kind that does not require any movements. Ugh…’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Only a bit of white wine from Cidaris. But there was probably an aphrodisiac in it… Yen? After my talk with Vilgefortz can we return to Loxia?’

  ‘We won't go back to Loxia.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want to spend this night in Aretuza. With you. Aphrodisiac, you say? In the wine? Interesting…’

  * * *

  ‘Oh my, oh my,’ sighed Yennefer, stretching on the bed and laying her thigh onto the witcher's. ‘Oh my, Oh my, my. It's been so long since I've made love this way… So very long.’

  Geralt disentangled his fingers from her heir, but didn't reply. Firstly, because he feared the hidden provocation in her statement. Secondly, because he didn't want the words to wipe the taste of her pleasure from his lips.

  ‘It's been so long since I've made love with a man who would profess his love for me, and whom I would love back,’ she murmured after a while, once it became clear that the witcher wasn't going to fall for the trick. ‘I've almost forgotten what it feels like. Oh my, Oh my.’

  She arched her back even more, stretching her arms and clutching at the corners of the pillow, and the sight of her breasts basking in moonlight sent a shiver down his back. He embraced her and they lay motionlessly, silent and still in the afterglow.

  Shrill cries of cicadas could be heard from outside, as well as the faraway voices and laughs, indicating that the banquet was not yet over, despite the late hour.

  ‘Geralt?’

  ‘Yes, Yen?’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘About the talk with Vilgefortz? Now? I'll tell you in the morning.’

  ‘Now, please.’

  He stared at the little cabinet at the corner of the chamber. Books were piled on it, sketchbooks and other items left by one of the students temporarily evicted to Loxia. Supported by the books sat a plump ragdoll in a frilly dress, rumpled by the excessive hugging. She left her dolly, he thought to himself, to be spared ridicule in Loxia's dormitory. She left behind her beloved doll. And now she's probably unable to fall asleep without it.

  The doll's button-eyes stared back at him. He turned his gaze away.

  When Yennefer was introducing him to the Chapter, he watched the wizardly elite closely. Hen Gedymdeith gave him just a single, weary look – it was clear that the banquet had already managed to tire the elderly man. Artaud Terranova bowed slightly with a dubious grin, leading his gaze from him to Yennefer, but it quickly melted under the glares of other people present. The azure eyes of Francesca Findabair were impenetrable and hard like ice. The Daisy of The Valley smiled when they were introduced to each other. Her smile, beautiful as it was, had terrified the witcher. Tissaia de Vries, seemingly busy with constantly improving her cuffs and jewellery, smiled a lot less beautifully but considerably more warmly. It was Tissaia who initiated the talk first, recounting one of his chivalrous witcherly deeds, which he couldn't recall and which was probably made-up.

  And then Vilgefortz joined the discussion. Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, the wizard of impressive posture, magnificent beauty and sincere voice. Geralt knew that people with his looks were completely unpredictable.

  They spoke shortly, feeling the concerned looks directed at them. Yennefer's for the witcher. Vilgefortz, in turn, was gazed at by a sorceress with kind eyes who was constantly trying to hide the lower half of her face with a fan. They exchanged a few conventional comments, after which Vilgefortz proposed moving the talk to a more secluded place. Geralt was under the impression that Tissaia de Vries was the only person surprised by this.

  ‘Have you fallen asleep, Geralt?’ urged Yennefer, breaking him out of his thoughts. ‘You were about to recount to me your talk with Vilgefortz.’

  The doll was staring at him down from the cabinet.

  ‘Once we've entered the cloister,’ he began, ‘That girl with a strange face…’

  ‘Lydia van Bredevoort. Vilgefortz's assistant.’

  ‘Yes, right, you've mentioned it. The person of no importance. Well then, once we were in the cloister, said person of no importance stopped, looked at him and asked him something. Through the use of telepathy.’

  ‘It wasn't a breach. Lydia cannot use her voice.’

  ‘I thought so. Because Vilgefortz didn't answer in the manner. He said…’

  * * *

  ‘Yes, Lydia, it's a great idea,’ said Vilgefortz. ‘Let's take a walk through the Gallery of Glory. You'll have the honour of taking a peek into the history of magic, Geralt of Rivia. I'm sure you know it well, but this time you'll see it visualised. If you’re a connoisseur of art, it may terrify you. Most of these paintings were made by the enthusiastic students of Aretuza. Lydia, be so kind and let some light in this shadow.’

  Lydia van Bredevoort made a sign with her hand and the corridor became brighter in an instant.

  The first painting featured an ancient ship, tossed by the waves among the rocks outcropping from the whirling deep. At the prow stood a man in white robes, his head adorned by a halo.

  ‘The First Landing,’ guessed the witcher.

  ‘Indeed,’ confirmed Vilgefortz. ‘Ship of the Exiles. John Bekker subdues the Power. He calms the waves, proving that magic need not be just evil and destructive, but can be used to save lives as well.’

  ‘Is this an authentic event?’

  ‘I doubt,’ smiled the wizard. ‘Most probably Bekker and the rest of the crew were throwing up over the brim. The Power was subdued only after the landing, which happened to be peaceful. Let's forward. Here you can see John Bekker again, forcing water out of stone near the first settlement. And there we have Bekker, surrounded by kneeling settlers, dispersing the clouds and stopping the storm from destroying the crops.’

  ‘And that one there? What event does it portray?’

  ‘The Finding of the Chosen. Bekker and Giambattista test the children of arriving settlers in order to find the Sources. Selected kids will be taken from their parents and brought to Mirthe, the first domicile of the wizards. You're looking at a historic moment. As you can see, all kids are scared, only that resolute brunette reaches to Giambattista with a trusting smile. This is the famous Agnes of Glanville, the first female wizard. The woman behind her is her mother. She looks quite sad, for some reason.’

  ‘And the scene with a gathering?’

  ‘Novigrad Union. Bekker, Giambattista and Monck make a truce with the chiefmen, priests and druids. Something to do with a pact of non-aggression and the separation of magic from the politics. Terribly corny. Let's go on. Here we have Geoffrey Monck setting off up the Pontar river, known at the time as Aevon y Pont ar Gwennelen, the Riven of Alabaster Bridges. Monck was saili
ng to Loc Muinne in order to convince the elven mages to school a group of children. You might be interested in the fact that among these children was a boy called Gerhart of Aelle. You've met him today. That boy is now known as Hen Gedymdeith.’

  ‘This particular scene,’ the witcher looked at the wizard, ‘Lacks in drama. After all, only a few years after Monck's successful expedition, the army of Marchal Raupenneck from Tretogor carried out a massacre of Loc Muinne and Est Haemlet, killing all elves regardless of age or gender. And so began a war, which ended with the slaughter in Shaerrawedd.’

  ‘Your admirable knowledge in history,’ smiled Vilgefortz, ‘ought to make you acknowledge the fact that none of the respectable wizards took part in this war. Therefore no student felt inspired to paint it. Let's continue.’

  ‘Very well. And what is this depiction? Ah, I know. It's Raffard the White ending the feud between kings and marking the end of the Six Years War. And over there, Raffard declines to accept the crown. Beautiful, noble gesture.’

  ‘You think so?’ Vilgefortz cocked his head. ‘Well, a gesture it was. However, Raffard did accept the post of a Royal Counsellor which put him the place of true ruler, as the king was retarded.’

  ‘The Gallery of Glory…’ muttered the witcher, coming up to the next canvas. ‘And here?’

  ‘The historic moment of the vocation of the first Chapter and the resolution of the Law. From the left: Herbert Stammelford, Aurora Henson, Ivo Richert, Agnes of Glanville, Geoffrey Monck and Radmir of Tor Carnedd. For the sake of accuracy, this painting also lacks in drama. Soon afterwards a very brutal war broke out, and all who opposed the Chapter and refused to follow the Law were slaughtered. Raffard the White, among others. But historical texts are silent about this, so as not to blemish the beautiful legend.’

  ‘And this one… Hmm… Yes, it was definitely painted by a student. Rather young one, too…’

  ‘Certainly. It's an allegory, at that. An allegory of the triumphing femininity, I presume. Air, Water, Earth and Fire. And the four famous sorceresses who mastered them. Agnes of Glanville, Aurora Henson, Nina Fioravanti and Klara Larissa de Winter. Look at the next, better-drawn painting. It's Klara Larissa again, opening the academy for girls. In the same building we're standing in right now. And the following portraits picture the most famous graduates of Aretuza. A long history of triumphing femineity and the subsequent feminization of the profession: Yanna of Murivel, Nora Wagner, her sister Augusta, Jada Glevissig, Leticia Charbonneau, Ilona Laux-Antille, Carla Demetia Crest, Yiolenta Suarez, April Wenhaver… And the only living one: Tissaia de Vries…’

  They went ahead. Lydia's silken dress whispered quietly as they walked, and its whisper held a hint of a dreadful secret.

  ‘And this one?’ Geralt stopped. ‘What is this terrifying scene?’

  ‘Martyrdom of the mage Radmir, skinned alive during Falka's rebellion. The background shows Mirthe, burned at Falka's order.’

  ‘For which Falka had been burned in turn. At the stake.’

  ‘It's a well-known fact. Temerian and Redanian children to this day play burning Falka at the eve of Saovine. Let's turn back a bit, so you'll see the other side of the gallery… I see you want to ask something. I'm listening.’

  ‘I'm wondering about the chronology. I know, of course, about the youth elixirs, but the paintings picturing people who are dead together with those who are still alive…’

  ‘In other words, you're surprised to have met Hen Gedymdeith and Tissaia de Vries but not Bekker, Agnes of Glanville, Stammelford or Nina Fioravanti?’

  ‘Not really. I know you're not immortal…’

  ‘What is death?’ Vilgefortz cut in. ‘To you?’

  ‘The end.’

  ‘The end of what?’

  ‘Existence. It seems that we've entered the philosophical field.’

  ‘Nature knows not the notion of philosophy, Geralt of Rivia. What we call philosophy is merely the funny and pathetic attempts at understanding Nature made by man. The result of such attempts is also called philosophy. It's as if the beetroot pondered the meaning of its existence, calling it an eternal and mysterious Conflict of Bulb and Leaves, and considering the rain to be an Inscrutable Motive Power. We, wizards, don't waste time on guessing what Nature is. We know what She is, because we are Her. Do you understand?’

  ‘I'm trying but speak slower, please. Don't forget that you're speaking to a beetroot.’

  ‘Have you ever wondered what happened when Bekker forced water out of the rock? It's said very simply: Bekker subdued the Power. He'd bound an element to his will. He'd reigned over Nature, dominated Her… What are your views towards women, Geralt?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Lydia von Bredevoort turned around with a whisper of silk, waiting for his answer. Geralt noticed in her arms a painting wrapped in paper. He had no idea where it came from, as Lydia hasn't been carrying anything a moment ago. The amulet on his neck gave soft vibrations.

  Vilgefortz was smiling.

  ‘I was asking,’ he repeated, ‘about your views towards the relations between a man and a woman.’

  ‘What part of these relations are you referring to?’

  ‘Do you think it's possible to bind a woman to your will? I am, of course, talking about real women, not girls. Is it possible to rule over a real woman? Conquer her? Force her to yield to you? And if so, then how? Answer me.’

  * * *

  The ragdoll's button eyes were still fixed at them. Yennefer turned her gaze away.

  ‘You answered?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You know.’

  * * *

  ‘You understand,’ said Vilgefortz at last. ‘And it seems like you've always understood. So you will also understand that once the concept of will and subjugation, of domination and submission, of male master and female slave, is gone and forgotten – only then we can truly achieve unity. An attachment and a bond. Mutual diffusion. And once you achieve this, death will no longer matter. There, in the banquet hall, John Bekker is present, as water which has once gushed out of the rock. Saying that Bekker has died is like calling water dead. Look at the next painting.’

  He did as he was told.

  ‘It's exquisite,’ he said finally. Instantly he felt delicate vibrations from his amulet.

  ‘Lydia,’ Vilgefortz smiled, ‘Is thanking you for the appreciation. And I shall congratulate you on your taste. The art work depicts the meeting of Cregennan of Lod with Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal, the legendary lovers, forced apart and destroyed by the times of contempt. He was a wizard, she was an elf, one of the elite Aen Saevherne, the Knowing. What could have become the beginning of reconciliation, ended up as a tragedy.’

  ‘I know this story. I used to take it for a mere fairytale. What happened for real?’

  ‘That,’ the wizard stated sombrely ‘is a mystery to all. All, but for a chosen few. Lydia, hang your painting next to it. Geralt, you may admire Lydia's newest work of art. It's a portrait of Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal, based on an old miniature.’

  ‘My deepest regards,’ the witcher bowed to Lydia van Bredevoort; his voice didn't tremble. ‘It's truly a masterpiece.’

  His voice didn't change at all, despite Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal looking at him down from her portrait with Ciri's eyes..

  * * *

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Lydia was in the gallery. We both went out to the terrace. And she laughed at my expense.’

  * * *

  ‘Over there, Geralt. If you don’t mind. Tread only on the dark tiles, please.’

  Below the sea roared, the island of Thanedd stood among the white foam of the surf. The waves crashed against the walls of Loxia, which were located just below them. Loxia sparkled with light, like Arethusa. Towering above them was the stone block Garstang which appeared to be black and dead.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ the wizard eyes followed the witcher ‘member of the Chapter and of the Council will be wearing th
eir traditional robes, you know the ones from the old engravings, black capes and pointed hats. Also we will carry staves and canes, we’ll look similar to wizards and witches that scare children. It’s a tradition. Accompanied by some other delegates, we head up to Garstang. There, in a room specially prepared we will debate. The rest will wait in Arethusa for us to return with our decisions.’

  ‘The gathering in Garstang, in a small group, is also a tradition?’

  ‘Absolutely. It is ancient and dictated by practical considerations. It happens that the deliberations of wizards there have been fairly stormy and reached a very active exchange of views. During one of these exchanges a ball of lightning damaged the hair and dress of Nina Fioravanti. Nina spent a year working to surround the walls of Garstang with magical aura blocking spells which were incredible strong. Since then, spells do not work in Garstang and the discussions run quietly. Especially when we remember to take away the knives of the disputants.’

  ‘I understand. And this solitary tower, above Garstang at the very top. What is it? Some building of importance?’

  ‘That is Tor Lara, the Tower of Seagulls. A ruin. Important? Probably yes.’

  ‘Probably?’

  The wizard leaned against the railing.

  ‘According to Elvish traditions, Tor Lara is connected via some form of teleportation device with the enigmatic Tor Zireael, the Tower of the Swallow, which has not yet been found.’

  ‘How? How is it you haven’t succeeded in discovering the teleporter? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘You are correct. We discovered a portal, but it was necessary to block it. There were protests, everyone rushed to do experiments, each sorcerer wanted to become famous as the explorer of Zireael Tor, the mythical home of Elvish sages and wizards. The Portal, however is irreparably flawed and brings chaos. There were victims, so it was blocked. Let’s go, Geralt, its getting cold. Careful. Step only on the dark tiles.’